‘What the hell! You sound like someone from one of my novels.’

(I did not enlarge on this, but in reality she was sounding like someone from abandoned drafts of some of my early novels. That was a period of my writing signified by sudden declarations, sardonic laughs, threats uttered, features grimacing. Not now, not any more. Even back then there was not much of it. I was never good at writing violence, and verbal violence always felt false to me.)

‘He is out for revenge against you.’

‘Revenge? Who is he, and what does he think I have done to him?’

‘My old partner on the Dearth force, Enver Jeksid.’

‘Oh, not him again. He said much the same to my colleague Spoder. What interest could he possibly have in me?’

‘He’s dangerous. He has already killed at least once.’

‘He’s a cop. That’s what cops do.’

‘Enver is no longer with the force. He’s disgraced, he has been put down to citizen serfdom. I haven’t seen him in years. He was dishonourably discharged, which lost him his vassalage. He lives on Salay Tielet.’

‘The third,’ I said, by habit adding the suffix. Tielet was a long way from Raba, on the opposite side of the central lagoon of the Salay Group, a mountainous island dominated by a long-extinct volcano. It was the wine-growing island. Large herds of cattle were reared on the coastal plains. Salay Tielet was famous for its liberal havenic laws, making itself a destination for many fugitives. I had never had reason to go there. ‘So what does Jeksid claim I’ve done to him?’

‘He’ll almost certainly tell you when he finds you.’

‘If you know, tell me now.’

I felt I was teetering on the edge of a dangerous world I did not understand, a place of murder, revenge and threats. But was it real? I was outside my home, standing on the side of the road I crossed almost every day when I walked down to the beach. Traffic was driving past at normal speeds, although having to slow slightly to go around Frejah’s roadster, angularly halted. Two young women in light clothes rode past on bicycles. They wobbled as they went around the car. Beyond us: the silver-blue sea looked glassy and still, as if becalmed by the hot sunshine. The familiar distant prospect of small islets. Yachts with multicoloured sails tacked in the light breeze. People were walking their dogs along the green sward that separated the beach from the road. On the beach, many were lazing in the sun, others were walking or staring at the sea, or running down to plunge in. All this I knew and understood.

‘He believes it was you who hacked the computer systems in Raba City,’ Frejah said.

‘And that affects him how?’

‘He lost all his money as a result.’

‘So has everyone else with savings on this island. Why should he blame me?’